


Gotham/DC Tumblr Fics

by countessrivers



Category: DCU (Comics), Gotham (TV)
Genre: 4x01, Bad Touch, Burns, Cuddling, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Injury, M/M, Multi, Sick Fic, Sleep Deprivation, Some Comfort This Time, The most valid Robin, Torture, Very little phases Jim Gordon these days
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:01:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23222179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countessrivers/pseuds/countessrivers
Summary: Collection of fics written based on Tumblr prompts
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Jim Gordon
Comments: 3
Kudos: 22





	1. Bruce + Melting

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote a few things based on prompts I got on Tumblr, and they turned out longer than I expected them to, so for organisational sake, I figured I'd post them here too.
> 
> This chapter was from a Gore Prompt list. I was sent Bruce + Melting (though it didn't actually end up particularly gory.)

Every movement is agony. Even breathing sends pain shooting through him, all centred around the spot where the suit has melted into his skin.

Bruce can already hear the sounds of rapidly approaching police sirens, so he grapples up to the roof, leaving Firefly where she is, knocked out and secured to a pipe. He stumbles as he lands, bites his tongue to hold back the scream as he grapples to the next roof. And the next. His mouth is full of blood by the time he’s dropping down next to the car. His legs are shaking, chills starting to wrack his body and he clutches at the roof, breathing harshly though it.

Opening the car door and collapsing into the seat, Bruce fumbles at his belt for one of the pain killers he keeps stored there and depresses it quickly into the crease in the armour at his hip. He gives it a few minutes to kick in. It’s not particularly strong, and definitely not strong enough to affect his ability to drive, but it should be enough to take the edge off so he can get home without passing out.

His fingers blindly find the catch to the cowl and he pulls it off, head thumping back against the seat. All he can do is sit there, breathing, waiting for the pain to dull even the tiniest bit. His gloves creak where they grip the edge of the seat. He sits there for a minute, two minutes, three, before the fire licking along the side of his body softens to something more like a simmer. As soon as it does Bruce starts the car and takes off. Hands all but throttling the steering wheel, he decides to take the longer route home. It adds an extra ten minutes to the trip, but it involves taking roads that are, for the most part, empty this time of night.

He’ll have to talk to Lucius and see if there’s any way they can install some kind of autopilot or remote driving control for the car. Right after he brings up the issue of fireproofing the suit. Not that is already isn’t fireproof, but it’s clearly not enough to stand up to Firefly’s latest toy.

Bruce, with Lucius’ help, has been adjusting and upgrading the suit constantly since he started…this. It’s been a challenge, finding a something that will take the kinds of damage Gotham can dish out, but that will also let Bruce _move_. It’s been a hell of a learning curve, and if nothing else, tonight has taught Bruce he might need to move ‘flame retardant’ higher up the priority list. Or maybe that should be just a general resistance to extreme temperatures, given Victor Fries’ existence.

That, or he just needs to be faster.

“Right, Sir.” His ear-piece crackles back to life. “I don’t suppose you’re ready to tell me what happened? Comm silence in the middle of a fight is one thing, but you know how I feel about you going quiet. Makes me nervous.”

“I’m on my way back, A. Prep the medbay.”

“Have you managed to get yourself shot again? Stabbed this time, perhaps?” Alfred’s words are blasé, even teasing, but Bruce can hear the worrying in his voice.

“Ran into Firefly.” A particularly large pothole jolts the car, and Bruce can’t hold back his resulting grunt. He can hear Alfred’s pause.

“As you say, Sir. I’ll be right here. Do try to be quick about it.”

Stepping on the gas that little bit more, Bruce tries to keep breathing steadily through his mouth, if only to avoid the smell that’s quickly filling the enclosed space of the car. If the smell of burnt flesh is one of Bruce’s least favourite smells, adding what is essentially burnt plastic to the mix just makes it worse. It fills his nose, and each breath is a struggle, not just because it pulls at his side, the parts where the suit has fused completely to his skin, like a second layer. Even on the edges where it hasn’t, the skin feels burnt, raw. He tries not to think about it as his own skin. Tries to distance himself from the smell, the pain, imagines instead that some goon had gotten in a lucky kick and Bruce is looking at a week with bruised ribs. Bad, but not as bad.

It doesn’t really work. Even with the pain killer it hurts too much for that, and there’s a slowly creeping horror that Bruce is having trouble keeping at bay. 

Alfred’s waiting for him when he pulls into the cave, throwing Bruce’s arm over his shoulder and half carrying him over to the table the second he’s out of the car. He leans him against it, and immediately starts working on removing what parts of the suit he can. Bruce detaches the cape, which flutters to the floor, but beyond that he’s not much help. Concentrates instead on standing upright.

Alfred gets his boots, gloves and gauntlets off quickly enough, then urges him up onto the table, pushing him gently to lay down flat and slipping something under his legs to keep them elevated. He distantly recognises the position for preventing shock.

Bruce can’t bring himself to look at his injury, but Alfred’s muffled swear says enough. He hears the snap of gloves, and then feels fingers gently probing over the suit, careful at the burnt and melted edges. Even that light pressure hurts, any kind of movement pulling at where the suit’s attached to the skin, but Bruce holds back any kind of reaction, knowing how much Alfred hates to see him in pain.

“I’ll have to cut you out of the rest, and then slough off the bits that have…” Bruce turns his head and watches Alfred swallow. He nods his understanding when it looks like Alfred isn’t going to finish the thought.

He risks a look down as Alfred moves away to collect supplies. He actually can’t see much. The suit all along his side is blackened and warped, bubbled in some spots, but almost cratered, dipping down over his skin like a second layer. It looks bad, but not as bad as it feels.

After all, it’s what’s underneath that’s the problem.

Alfred eventually comes back, and Bruce turns his head to face the ceiling, barely feeling the needle as it slides into his neck, Alfred injecting him with a combination pain killer and sedative. The suit’s already a lost cause, and Bruce goes over new schematics and designs in his head as Alfred removes it piece by piece. It’s a distraction from the way his skin is pulled with every movement. Alfred’s trying to be careful, going slow, Bruce knows this, but the whole suit is effectively anchored to his body, and even the smallest tug feels like a knife digging in.

Bruce’s eyes are drooping by the time the suit is gone, and the cool, damp towels Alfred drapes over his torso feel good. His chills have subsided for now, and so the towels are soothing more than anything. As he lays there, listening to Alfred move around, the snap of him changing his gloves, Bruce can feel the deep heat of the burns give way just a little. He’s not sure how long Alfred leaves them on, but he eventually returns and removes them, leaving them neatly on the rolling table by the bed. Once he has, Bruce risks another glance down.

Alfred gentles him as he gags, turning away immediately. The majority of his stomach, his chest, even down over his hip and the tops of his thighs are bright red, almost like a bad sunburn, and the skin beneath and around the very edges of the remaining bits of suit is blistered and shiny. Second-degree burns, almost certainly. Beyond that, the suit has completely melted, fused, stuck to the skin beneath it.

“This is going to hurt I’m afraid, Master B. I’ll go slow though.”

Alfred’s right. Even through the haze of the pain killers and the sedative, it hurts. Dear god does it hurt. Bruce has been shot, stabbed, beaten, and poisoned before. He’s had broken bones, he’s been trapped out in the elements, pushed himself to the very limits of what his body can handle. He’s even been burned before, but none of that had ever felt like this. Nothing Bruce has felt before comes close to the way it feels to have Alfred wipe away melted Kevlar and take layers of his skin with it.

He does go slow. Uses a fresh towel to wipe away each layer, bit by bit, and Bruce holds himself still throughout it. Uses every bit of strength he has to keep from moving, from hurting himself more. He can feel everything. Can feel the pull of the suit as Alfred gently prods at the edges, easing it free. He can feel the way it tugs on the skin before finally coming loose, inch by inch, and the sharp, gnawing pain when it takes the top layers of skin with it.

Bruce bites his lips and his tongue bloody, holding back his screams, refusing to do that to himself, or Alfred, because every movement hurts, and he knows this is hard enough for Alfred as it is. He’s not going to make it worse. Bruce knows this has to be done, the burns are too bad to be left untreated for the time it would take for the melted part of the suit to fall off on its own. It’s too large, would take too long, and leaving it untreated could easily turn life-threatening, beyond what Alfred is capable of treating on his own in the cave. It still hurts.

Bruce isn’t sure how long he lays there, holding himself coiled and stiff as Alfred works, but eventually the sedative finally takes over, and he slips into unconsciousness before Alfred is done.


	2. Jim + Sleep Deprivation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was Jim + Sleep Deprivation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Insert ship/villain of your choice.

Jim’s been here for five days, and he’s been awake that entire time.

Or maybe it’s been longer. Maybe he’s been here a week.

Or maybe it’s less. Maybe it’s only been two days. One even.

He’s not sure.

The lights are never turned off. They’re blinding, bright and searing even during those rare moments Jim is able to close his eyes.

Brief, red hued respites before someone inevitably comes and makes him open them again.

He’s been fed twice, given sips of water more regularly than that, but that tells him nothing. There are no windows, no clocks, no way to mark the passage of time but the beating of his heart and the rhythm of his breath.

They’d grabbed him from a warehouse down near the south docks. He been there on a tip called in about a current case, though it seems now more like he was lured there. They’d knocked him out, and he’d come to on the floor of the empty room, stripped of everything, from his weapons to his clothing, dizzy, nauseous, the back of his head crusted with blood from where the pipe had split it open. He’d vomited twice as he circled the room, looking for a way out. There’d been none, just a single, solid door that locked from the outside.

He’s not sure how long he was alone for. There was a camera in the corner of the ceiling, so they had to have known he was a wake, but they still left him there. Let him stew, let him tire himself out, though Jim hadn’t given them the satisfaction of shouting or threatening. He’d just sat down against the wall, shivering, head still spinning, and waited.

Eventually he’d heard the door unlock, and Jim had gotten slowly to his feet, as much an attempt at appearing unworried and in control as it was a concession to his concussion.

He can’t- He can’t remember who it was. He used to know, can remember the anger he felt that first time they walked through the door, as well as the absence of surprise, because he wasn’t really surprised at all that they would have him kidnapped. He knew them well enough to not be surprised, even if he hadn’t been sure exactly what they were after.

He _knew_ them.

He can remember the smirk on their face as he struggled against the men holding him, the satisfaction he could see every time he failed to hold back his cries as their hired muscle laid into him. He can remember the way they said his name.

He just can’t remember them. Can’t put a name to the face. It all keeps slipping away, as hard to keep clutched in his hands as water, or smoke.

At least, that’s what it’s like when he’s alone. He’s pretty sure he remembers them when they’re there. He thinks he says their name, over and over, and he thinks they like it when he does. He can see in his head a smile, sharp, and painful for reasons Jim can’t put his finger on.

Then again, he’s been saying a lot of names, so it might just be a coincidence when he lets slip the right one. Because he’s been talking. Can’t stop himself talking. He hadn’t at the start. They’d taunted him and he’d refused to engage, asked him questions he refused to answer, but after a while, he couldn’t help it. Had to talk, had to let loose everything that was building up inside, trying to claw its way out of his mouth. And once he started, he couldn’t stop. He talks when they’re there, he talks when they’re hurting him, he talks when he’s alone. Whatever he’s thinking, he says aloud. Gives the answers he thinks they want plus half a dozen others. He talks until his voice gives out. Either that or he’s screaming.

And they let him. They let him talk, let him plead, let him rage. They let him lean into the soft touches he’s occasionally given, let him lay on the floor, alone, still, apart from the way his body shakes and trembles, and sometimes even quiet. They even let him pull away, only half the time following it with a slap across the face.

The only thing he’s not allowed to do is sleep.

They wake him up whenever he tries, hurt him even more.

“No nodding off, Jim. Need you to stay awake. Can you do that for me?”

The keep moving him too. Whether he’s alone or not, he’s constantly being re-positioned. The first time, two men had simply held him by the arms while a third had driven his fists into his stomach over and over, changing it up occasionally to hit him in the face. When they were done he’d been dropped to the floor, left there, untouched, but for the shiny, black toe of the shoe that had nudged his head to the side so that the blood from his broken nose and bitten-through tongue had dripped onto the floor, instead of down his throat. When it had become clear that he wasn’t going to choke on his own blood, the shoe had turned and left.

Not ten minutes later, just as Jim had been slipping into unconsciousness, a shrill siren sounded, echoing off the walls and ringing in his ears. It had startled Jim back into alertness and kept him there. It had felt like hours before it had stopped. Maybe it had been.

The next time they came Jim had been chained to the wall, and they hadn’t hit him that time, just carved into him instead. The lackeys had stood back, and it had been _them_ who took up the knife. They hadn’t touched his face, just dragged the blade over his chest, his stomach, across his hips and pelvis, up his side and down his thighs, tutting and scolding him for flinching and making their hand slip. Sometimes they’d just traced with the tip of the knife, not even breaking the skin, others they’d dug in deep, split him open. Pressed up against him and shushed the sounds they themselves worked to pull out.

Then they’d left him there, hanging from the wall, shaking and bleeding, and most importantly, awake.

A day, an hour later they’d come back, let him down, given him a little food and water before they’d pushed him to his knees and bound him there, legs folded, chest pressed to his thighs. His relief at being down from the wall had quickly turned when the effects of the position itself become clear, the pressure and the stress of it ramping up and up with no end in sight until it hurt to breathe, no outside help needed. And there was no way he’d ever have been able to fall asleep like that.

He thinks someone was there, at least for a little while. He can remember a hand in his hair, combing out the knots, nails digging into the cut on the back of his head before scratching down the nape of his neck in a way that almost felt nice. Warm hands had soothed up and down his sides as he’d tried to gasp in enough air, and his whimper as a finger trailed down his spine, lower, had earned him a kiss on the back of his neck.

Again and again they’d moved him and touched him, only to then leave him alone, never, ever letting him close his eyes for more than a moment.

Jim has no idea when he last saw someone. It might have been five minutes ago, it might have been a day. He’s not sure. He’s not sure of anything. He feels like he’s being watched, like there’s someone in the room with him. He can see shadows moving, always out of the corner of his eye, but he can never catch them, even those times when he actually has the strength to turn his head.

He hears voices too, speaking to him, about him. Jim’s started answering back, on the off chance they are there. Sometimes he’s so sure someone’s in the room with him, can feel them, feel them moving about, feel their eyes and their hands on him, but then he’ll look up, and the room will be empty.

Jim knows what this is. He knows what they’re trying to do. He’d had had some minor resistance training against sleep deprivation in the army. Not a lot, but enough to give him an idea, and a few tools to push back against it. Not that there was much one could do against it. It’s torture, plain and simple, and there’s no real way to fight against your body turning against you so violently. He’d never seen it implemented, on his comrades or the enemy, but he can picture the list of symptoms, the effects of prolonged lack of sleep. He knows what it does to the body. To the mind.

His resistance tools ran out on day two. Or maybe it was day three.

He’s not sure, and that scares him. Being aware of what was happening doesn’t make it any less effective. Jim can feel himself losing it, more and more with each passing moment, grasping for something real, and it worries him because he doesn’t know what the end goal is. He doesn’t know what they want from him. If they wanted him dead there are easier and quicker ways to do it, even if the goal was still just to draw it out and make it as painful as possible.

Jim doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know.

He just wants to go to sleep.

This time he’d been given something. Normally they’d just hit him, cut him, dump ice water on him to keep him awake, but not this time. He’d been hauled to his feet, his arms stretched above his head and secured in the cold, rusted chains that hung from the ceiling. He’d watched as a needle was pushed into the crook of his arm, delivering whatever drug it was right into his veins. He’d then been left there to manage the careful balance between standing on his toes to take the weight off his shoulders, and the exhaustion of maintaining the position, even as his legs shook.

And whatever they gave him doesn’t banish the fatigue so much as it just simply keeps him awake. He can feel it, in how heavy his whole body feels, how fragile. He wants to sleep, to close his eyes and rest for a moment. He wants it more than anything, but the drug won’t let him, _t_ _hey_ won’t let him. The flare that burns under his skin, that races through his veins keeps him awake, aware. He doesn’t know what they want. He doesn’t know how long this is going to go on for, how much longer he can last.

He wants to sob. Thinks he might actually do so.

He’s so tired. He’s so damn tired.

And Jim could have sworn he was alone, is sure he never heard the door reopen, but he suddenly feels hands on his hips, a body pressed up behind him, lips tracing along his jaw. He can feel someone touching him.

At least he thinks he does.

“That’s it, Jim. Good, so good for me.”

He’s just so tired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My [tumblr](http://countessrivers.tumblr.com/).


	3. Comfort Food

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for tumblr prompt 'Gotham - Comfort Food'

“Sweetheart, can I do anything?”

Barbara spins around from where she’s alternating between stirring the boiling pasta and stirring the sauce on the stove to find her father standing in the doorway. Actually, leaning is probably the better word for it. No, _slumped_.

“Yes, dad, you can go lie back down,” she says firmly. “You’re sick.” She’d wave the spoon threateningly at him if it wouldn’t send sauce flying everywhere.

“I’m fine, honey. I can manage dinner on my own. You don’t have to-”

“No. You’re sick, you shouldn’t be up at all, so go lie back down.”

“It was barely even the flu,” her dad scoffs. “And I’m over it. I don’t even know why Renee insisted on me taking another week off.”

“She did it because you are recovering. And even then, you still somehow managed to talk her into you bringing home paperwork.”

“It’s just going to pile up otherwise.”

“Sure,” Barbara concedes. “But you can do that sitting down, and you can also let me make dinner. While sitting down.”

Her dad frowns, and Barbara really can’t judge because she’s exactly the same. She can’t stand to leave work piling up, nor can she stand being sidelined, left out of the loop, stuck at home and unable to help. Last time she’d been laid up sick in bed she’d insisted on at least running comms with Alfred for Bruce and Dick.

Gordons do not take well to idleness. Or helplessness.

“The more you push yourself, the longer it will take to get better, and the longer you’ll be stuck at home.” It’s exactly what he’d said to her when she’d had tonsillitis, but had kept insisting that she was well enough to go to school, and from the look on his face, he knows it.

If he was going to reply, it’s interrupted by a coughing fit that has him clutching at the door frame. Balancing the spoon on the edge of the pan, Barbara fills a glass of water and hands it to him when the coughing subsides. He smiles and ruffles her hair as he takes it, but she notices the way he then has to grip the wall for support.

He really does look terrible. Better than he did a week ago, sure, but still far too pale, eyes red, and voice croaky.

“Alright, alright,” he says once the glass is empty and he’s noticed the way she’s looking at him. “I’ll go back to the lounge room.”

“Exactly, doctor’s orders. Besides, even if I did let you help, you’d just cough over everything. I’ll call when it’s ready.”

“You’re making Bolognese, yeah?” he asks as he finally lets her shoo him out.

“Your favourite. Lots of carbs. Proper comfort food.”

Her dad pauses.

“…Garlic bread?”

“Yes, of course.”


	4. Svelte

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for tumblr prompt 'Batfam (Jarro) - Svelte'

“The League should be able to keep things in hand, but just in case, the GCPD should be on stand-by in case things cross the bay.”

“Thanks for the heads up,” Jim says. “I’ll make sure everyone’s ready to go, even if it’s just the Metropolis PD needing the extra manpower.”

Nodding, Jim then stares at Bruce’s shoulder for a good long moment, before closing his eyes and taking at deep breath.

“Okay, I have to ask?” He opens his eyes and gestures vaguely to his shoulder. “What exactly is…”

“This is Jarro.” Jarro wiggles at being acknowledged, one of his arms brushing against Bruce’s cheek.

“ _Evening, Commissioner Gordon.”_

Jim, impressively, barely even flinches at hearing Jarro “speak”.

“Jarro, as in…”

“Starro…in a jar. I mean, he _was_ in a jar. Now he’s-”

_“Robin. The best Robin ever, in fact. The smallest, quietest, most nimble, most svelte, most graceful, most awesome Robin.”_

“Which explains the tiny Robin costume.” Jim’s face is doing something that Bruce can’t quite parse. It involves a lot of blinking and somewhat dazed nodding. He eventually shakes his head, turning from Bruce to look directly at Jarro. “Well, it’s good to have you, Robin. Gotham will sleep safer with you out there.”

_“You can count on me, Commissioner.”_

Jim nods, nods again at Bruce, then heads for the roof door. Jarro clings to Bruce’s cape as then he swings them off the top of the GCPD building, radiating happiness.

_“I think he likes me, Dad.”_


	5. Gobblepot- Cuddling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gobblepot fic written for the prompt ‘Cuddling’

Jim’s not prepared for Oswald throwing himself at him. He’s just managed to slide his gun back into his holster when fingers start clawing desperately at his shirt as Oswald scrambles up off the ground, crying out. He catches him on instinct, arms coming around to take his weight as he collapses against him.

“Help me! Help me!” Oswald screams, almost shrieks it. His arms wrap around his waist almost crushingly tight, nails scratching frantically at his back.

Staring down at where Oswald is clinging to him, sobbing and desperately afraid, Jim can feel the stares of the room heavy on them. Merton is still laughing, and the repeated flashes of light tell Jim that the reporters Oswald invited are lapping it all up.

He has no clue what to do.

His hand has somehow found its way to the back of Oswald’s head, cradling it almost, and he can feel Oswald’s fingers move to his elbow, gripping his jacket. Jim’s bruised ribs are grateful for the change in position, but he’s still taking most of his weight, Oswald practically curling into him.

“Jim, please. Please.”

He can’t be sure what Oswald is seeing, but given where he’d been looking before he’d thrown himself at him, he could hazard a guess.

Jim doesn’t believe for a second that Ed is up there, frozen and on display, of his own volition. Even if he hadn’t, right before his disappearance, had an open vendetta against Oswald, it’s just not something Jim can imagine him ever doing. And Jim may not have solid proof, he may no longer even have the backing to investigate it, but he knows.

Oswald did this to Ed, and he’s afraid.

And he probably should be, whether or not Ed is dead or alive in there, whether justice, or comeuppance, will come from Ed himself, or someone else. Oswald has spent months hunting down and killing dozens of criminals, he’s attempting to legalise crime, has bought the mayor and the police commissioner, and not even an hour earlier Jim had gotten a beating from his own colleagues, either on Oswald’s direct orders, or simply because they knew he’d approve. Oswald is making enemies, even more-so than usual, and he’s not as invincible as he thinks, as the current situation proves.

But all the same, it’s hard to see, and impossible to ignore, especially when it’s his chest Oswald is sobbing into. Him he’s begging for help.

Jim presses his hand into Oswald’s back, and feels him shudder at the contact. He’s still pleading, hoarse and broken “please”s and “help me”s intercut by cries of fear. The camera lights are still flashing, and Jim looks around in search of…he’s not sure what. He feels awkward, hyper aware of everyone watching them, of how humiliated Oswald is going to be, and of how it’s been months since he’s been touched in any way that wasn’t violent.

He catches Alfred’s eye, and the man looks bemusedly back at him. Zsasz is standing near him, watching as well, though there is something rather more considering in his gaze. Jim looks away, looks back down.

“Oswald, it’s fine. You’re fine. You’re safe.”

He’s had to talk down people infected by Crane’s gas before, and he doesn’t know how much even got through, but it feels right to at least try. Oswald looked to him, knows it’s him he’s clinging to, and Jim can’t not try.

And maybe he does hear him, because he shudders again, clings to him tighter, fingers digging in, but somehow less frantic.

“Jim?” It’s more a question now.

“Yeah, I’m here, I’m here, Oswald. It’s fine, you’re fine.”

“He- He-” Oswald looks up at him, and the terror is still writ clear across his face. He’s shaking, pale and sweaty, but he knows he’s there, knows it’s him, and it’s like being thrust back years, back to the pier, Oswald looking at him desperately, begging him to hear him, pleading for mercy.

“Right, everybody out.”

No one moves, and Zsasz sighs before pointing his gun at the ceiling.

“Don’t-” Jim’s head snaps up and he tries to interject. The last thing they need is more gunfire.

“I said,” Zsasz cuts him off. “OUT!”

The crowd scrambles, rushing for the door. Jim looks to Alfred, who nods before turning to usher Bruce out too. Bruce lets himself be moved but turns to look over his should back at Jim, concern clear across his face. It eases a little when Jim shoots him an attempt at a smile, but he’s still looking back worriedly as Alfred guides him out of the room.

“Harvey?”

“Yeah, I got it.” He hears Harvey drag Merton to his feet. “Come on.”

Tabitha brushes past him too, until Jim, Oswald, and Zsasz are the only ones left.

“You got him?” Zsasz asks.

Jim nods, looking at him rather than down at where Oswald has now buried his face in his neck.

Zsasz jerks his head towards one of the doors at the back of the club. “Office is back there.”

He doesn’t offer to help, just watches and follows as Jim half supports, half carries a still shaking, still pleading Oswald back into the relative privacy of his office.

**Author's Note:**

> My [tumblr](http://countessrivers.tumblr.com/).


End file.
